


Rabbit in the Room

by Path



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-01
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:03:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Path/pseuds/Path
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have never worried overmuch about being different. But, standing in your girlfriend's room wearing her lacy underthings, you are vaguely aware that this is much more than different. This is wrong. But nobody will ever know, so you can keep stumbling through life as you do.<br/>That is, nobody will ever know, except for Diamonds Droog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dreadelion](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Dreadelion).



> Based on Dread's picture here (http://dreadelion.tumblr.com/post/9550141842) which I guess made me consider _I could legitimately picture this_

It is early afternoon and you are sidling into your girlfriend's room. Your shoulders are tense and you continually dart your eyes over them to check behind you. Your girlfriend is out of town. You have no reason you can think of to be so nervous in your own apartment, but you are, veins jittering with anticipation or fear, or both.

You stand in front of her floor-length mirror, as tall as you but not quite as thin, and you strip out of your clothes. The heavy long overcoat gets folded once and placed on the bed, but you start worrying after that and the rest of your clothes just get piled on top of it in easy reach. Your suit is grey, and does not quite reach past your ankles and wrists. It is rather rumpled because you have the bad habit of scrunching the fabric in your hands when nerves hit, which is almost constantly. Your girlfriend has tried to curb you of the habit, but so far, has been unsuccessful. You just forget quickly, is all.

Your fingers shake on your buttons and you take a second to reassure yourself that you are alone, that your girlfriend will not find out. Problem Sleuth says that confidence is just lying to yourself really well; you are trying to internalize it. She won't be back, you repeat to yourself a few times. You stare into your own eyes in the mirror, a watery shade of grey with too much blue in them and shadows like violet stains lurking beneath. Deep breath. She won't be back.

You slide the shirt off your bony shoulders. You can count your own ribs but you don't need to; there are twenty-four. You are long past the point where you worried you might have miscounted and had to double-check everytime you got dressed. You are confident you have twenty-four ribs. You drop your pants on top of the pile of clothes. On your arm is written in blue pen, your shaky-legged script, the word "three". You are not sure when you wrote it or what it was for.

You stand in front of the mirror in your underwear and shiver. It is always cold in your apartment because you keep forgetting to pay utilities. That's alright- the radiator has long since gone missing under piles of books, rumpled jackets, and tea cups with stray, dried leaves. You are not entirely sure where it was in the first place. You take off your underwear too.

You are more comfortable now, and you've stopped looking over your shoulder. Somehow, though being so stripped down makes you tremble, you're just entering that safe zone in your head where you can block the rest of the world out. You open the top drawer of the dresser, idly counting the beads on the pearl strand sitting on the flat top. (Fifty-nine.) You take out a few items and place them reverently beside your own clothes. Your clothes are functional, taking the wear you give them and the beatings other people do. You don't care for them much. These are different.

You hum something softly as you put them on, slow and careful and methodical. These are the only times your mind slows down long enough to be methodical; these and those crystalline moments of imagination alone, before you crash. You remember buying each one of these for your lady friend, each occasion marked out. Equally, you remember shyly slipping into them yourself when she was out, painstakingly careful not to leave a mark on them, to erase all evidence of your small crime.

Surely it's not so bad. You borrow them, but you don't use them. You put them back. You cannot quite lie to yourself enough to be convincing. But you do it all the same. The waist corset is designed for a tall, slim woman; you are not so far from that. There is a slight curve, perhaps an extra eleven-degree angle, that pulls away from your hips and chest, but when you cinch it in, nudging your flat stomach flatter, that angle becomes yours and you are the one with that faint curve.

Thin silk underwear, pale blue, grey lace. This you are extremely careful with. The corset can take a little abuse, and can stand to inflict it on you. The panties are not designed with you in mind. But you wear them anyhow and your brain shakes uncontrollably in your skull. You pull on the gloves, long grey silk and past your elbow, and you stand in front of the mirror.

Your eyes are very guilty, but when you look at your body, lanky and awkward and shivering, your lips part and you almost lose thought entirely at the sight. You always do. You can't imagine anyone ever doing this, and you can imagine quite a lot. Sick guilt wells up in your stomach and roils there; you have never given much thought to being different, but you are aware that this resides on a different level than most of your social botches. This is something very different indeed.

It's too much. Enough for the day. You'll take it off, gently and cautiously, and replace it all in the drawer, and then you won't do this again until the next time your lady friend is away for more than a day. You clasp your silk-clad fingers around your upper arm, where the gloves stop. You begin to slowly roll it down, trying not to relish the feeling, until the voice that comes from directly behind you nearly makes you shock out of your skin.

"Don't you move just yet," comes a low tone, lazy and cool. "You just got that on."


	2. Chapter 2

You spin, heart in your throat and pounding there, mouth open and eyes wide. To your horror, you remember immediately what your blue-pen note on your arm was for. It was tea with Diamonds Droog, your sometimes companion and sometimes wary foe, and you had told him to let himself in, because you couldn't count on remembering he was coming with your girlfriend not there to remind you. You wrote yourself a note to prompt your memory, but even that wasn't enough.

Diamonds Droog is leaning against the door frame, all tall grace and stillness like a praying mantis in a suit. It is a very good suit, cut sharply and stylized. Black pinstripes on black, subtle, with a clean white tie immaculately tucked into his black vest. His coat is folded over one arm and he rolls one silver cuff link between his fingers, toying with his sleeve in a casual gesture.

You can't even begin to explain yourself and you don't try. In the horrible humiliating moment that is now, your brain shuts off entirely. You stand there in your girlfriend's dainty underthings and wish yourself dead.

Droog's eyes, calm grey and unreflective, flicker up to yours. "Don't change clothes on my account," he says. "Suits you better than your usual get-up." Your lips part in an expression that you think through your unresponsive brain can only be horrified. Droog smiles thinly and steps towards you. You want to step back, oh, you want to flee, but you can't move. Droog saunters into your personal space, which is all the more knife-edge sharply defined because you are just wearing so little, and you shrink from him.

His fingers seize your jaw, hold it, tilt it, forcing your eyes to his. "Hm," he muses, a faint and amused sound. "I wish you had seen fit to serve me my tea in this before. We could have dispensed with this drawn-out foreplay if you had."

A word bubbles up to the surface, practically without your input. Your entire being is focused on Droog's fingers and where they touch your jaw. "Our... wwwwhat?" you manage, your voice squeaking upwards on the second word.

Droog pauses, goes entirely still. He is almost insectoid that way, you have noticed. Only insects can lose all movement that way. Insects and Diamonds Droog. "Our tea parties," he replies eventually. "I might as well simply say it now; I suspect there is little I can say that will be as large a shock as... this." He tilts his head almost imperceptibly at you. "Surely you caught some of my advances during our past meetings and understood them for what they were. I didn't expect that to be the case, but then..." He casts a long look down your body and back up to catch your eyes again. "...I didn't expect this, either."

You stammer something in reply. "I didn't- you were- did you? But I didn't, I wasn't- I wasn't going to- this isn't for _you_ ," you stumble out.

"Not for me?" he asks, eyebrows raised. "No, Inspector, you couldn't have given me a more obvious gift if you had added a bow to the wrapping you've already put on."

You really have no idea to proceed. You continue to hope the ground will devour you. Droog evidently takes your silence as agreement, and smiles his stiletto smile. He holds his jacket casually, coat looped over one arm held close to his body, but the other hand, the one clenching your jaw, moves. His fingers slide down your neck to your bare collarbones. Your mouth drops open further, and you realize abruptly that you must be flushing vividly, because your face feels hot in the cool air. A brief glance in the mirror proves it, but offers only a second problem to the pile, for Droog notices your glance, the way your eyes linger on the reflection of your long body and his fingers on you.

He takes two steps, economy of motion, and slips behind you. Droog is a tall man, but he is not quite as tall as you, and he leaves you almost alone in the mirror. You can see him set his coat on the chair, folding it over the back, and then he returns to you, standing where he put you. Then, without warning, he touches you, a finger placed to your spine and carelessly traced down it. When he reaches the corset strings his finger bumps against them and the slight impact is felt through every bone in the thing. He taps it again, testing.

Then his fingers are on your shoulder, tracing over it and down your arm. His other hand matches, down your other arm. Every motion is deliberate and drawn-out, extremely and painfully intentional. His hands slide from your gloved wrists to your hips, thin and bony and cinched in the low curve of the corset. The sensation dulls through the thick fabric and bones but you are intensely aware of it. You can't struggle not to be aroused by this. You were already a little so when you thought you were alone, when you thought it would be a simple dress-up, then you'd put the clothes away, take a shower, and likely shamefully bring yourself to a finish there, mind high on seeing yourself like that. With Droog there, with him looking at you and touching you and who knows what he wants to do, your shaft is twitching in the thin panties.

You wish you could hide away- away from everyone's sight, but most obviously from Droog's. You had liked your tea parties. He didn't ask much of you, though on occasion his motionless intensity would crack into pale amusement, you think a little at your expense. But now he is watching you, his eyes dwelling on your stripped body, wearing so little clothing and so wrong, and you are twitching yourself into hardness in your girlfriend's silk panties. You could not imagine a more nightmarish situation if you tried. You close your eyes and try to sink into the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

His fingers clench your jaw and turn your head for you, and his voice comes calmly in your ear, "Open your eyes, please." You do, as soon as he tells you. "Good," he says. "Seeing it for yourself is so important. I don't wish to lose any of the effect." He lets your jaw go, and you let your eyes fix on your eyes in the mirror, desperately wide and fearful.

Droog's hands are caressing you, tracing over your hips and down your thighs. You tighten up and pull in a quick breath when he pauses on that place the panties stretch around your hip. He strokes that, for a second, and continues on, but you shudder and your shaft lurches inside the delicate material. He gets to about mid-thigh, hands visible at your side, before he pulls them back and traces up the back of your thighs, up over the silky underwear. He pauses there, too, a second slow tracing up over your ass and a faint, satisfied-sounding "Hm," as a shiver races through you. His hands slip around your body, for the moment dwelling on the corset boning. "You look very afraid," muses Droog, a ghost behind you. "Are you?"

Your voice shivers out of you. "I... yes," you say awkwardly.

"Usually," pronounces Droog softly, "I would like that very much." He shifts position, closer to your side now, one hand on your back, dead-center on your spine, and the other returning to the corset, stroking up your stomach. "However, circumstances being as they are, I feel compelled to put you more at ease." His hand leaves the corset, sliding up your bare chest. The sensation, the slowly-dragging point of desire that he leaves wherever he touches, is painful but delicious. Up your chest, lazily passing your collarbones, then a simple touch to your jaw and you are looking at him, and not at yourself. "So I will say this, Inspector." His charcoal eyes lock on yours and you are frozen like a rabbit in his gaze. "I will not hurt you. Unless you wish me to." He seems to add the last as an afterthought, one he does not dislike the idea of.

You cannot quite thank him, though you feel the vague pull to. All the same, his point made and his token reassurance offered, Droog moves on.

His touches change. He slips closer to your front, places both hands on your shoulders, and lets them roam. It feels like an attack, a sudden siege on your slim defences, his fingers pulling and dragging at you. You let out a sharp breath; Droog smiles. His fingers are everywhere, it feels, one instant encircling your wrist and giving a slight squeeze to let you know he has you restrained, the next twisting a nipple between his finger pads and chuckling softly when a low moan that escapes you, brought on by the stab of desire twinging through you. One hand traces down your thigh, the other your cheek, and drags two fingers between your lips. As they open a little in shock, he slips them further in, pressing against your tongue.

Reflexively, you close your mouth around them, sucking slightly. Droog murmurs something appreciatory and pulses his hand against your mouth. "Good," he says, and then when you don't stop, his other hand grips your jaw in the now-familiar way, suddenly intense and distant. "I said, that's good," he repeats, eyes locking you in again, and something in your chest shivers and aches at his rebuke. You open your mouth again and Droog pulls his fingers out, wet and glistening with saliva. He regards them thoughtfully for a moment before applying them firmly to the tip of your cock, straining against the silk underwear.

The sensation blanks your brain. You actually stumble backwards as your legs forget how to keep you standing. Droog's reaction is instantaneous and decisive, fingers gripping your wrist and a hand around your waist, moving faster than you fall. He stops as soon as he catches you in a way that is somehow exotic and martial, completing a kata before returning to his neutral space. He waits there, supporting you for a few moments, and you think that he's ensuring you realized what he just did. You don't know what to say about it, though, and a second later he pulls you effortlessly up again.

He drifts around you, hand trailing carelessly over your body. "I think we will get you lying down," he suggests, and leads you to the bed.


	4. Chapter 4

Through it all, you are terribly afraid, but for the exact same reason that your stomach shakes, you can't say a word. You have always been fearful of new things, new experiences. It is a mark of pride with you that your lady friend doesn't share your instinctive terror; your Imagination created something better than you. But you're still like this, and after experiencing as much as you have, you think it's for ever. You're just a rabbit in your own life, a rabbit in an owl's sight and waiting to be seized and devoured. You are very afraid, afraid of living. Living will devour you.

The sheer experience of dressing up in the first place was so alien and unlike you you really can't say why you started doing it, except that the fear and subsequent loathing it inspired in you were altogether different from the kind you experienced everywhere else. Your failures tend to dwell in the instant, stretching on forever, but you forget easily. This, this lurks in your mind and captivates you, enough that you have to take great care in your imaginary journeys now, lest you automatically and thoughtlessly equip yourself with corset, stockings, gloves. The city is dangerous, but thankfully, you can imagine a great deal.

For some reason, anyhow, you tried it when it entered your head and you kept doing it despite the lurching fear of deviancy that patrols the rest of your life. That is why Droog's presence fills you with such horror. Shame is less potent without an outside source, and fear of one is nothing like the presence of it. Your throat was already tightening with the horror of continual attention, of explaining to your leader, of slurs when you walk the street. You had already realized, with Droog here, that you would not be going outside for a long time to come.

And then he ripped all the thoughts out of your head.

The strangest thing about his reaction, you realize, as Diamonds Droog presses you down to the bed, is actually the lack of one. Disgust, horror, amusement, those you understand, expect. But Droog took it. He was unfazed by it. That means one of two things: that your deviancy is not so unusual as you had thought (you find this unlikely, though you are by no means well-versed in such things), or that Droog was not surprised because this was unsurprising. He was not surprised because this matched his ideas of you. _This seemed like something you would do_.

This thought is the worst yet, and it is the truest. You would squirm in nausea but at that moment, Droog seats himself on the bed, dark and sharp against the white-painted headboard, and beckons you. His hands find your hips and he moves you, fearful and sick and still wanting as you are, pulls you onto his lap and seats you across it. One of his hands drifts to your thigh and rests there, the other trails gently through your hair, over your cheek, caresses your lips. Immediately your shaft tugs at the panties, roused by the slightest touch now.

His fingers slide down your neck, trace the line of your collarbone, and then slide down your chest. You arch into it, as much as the corset will allow, and as if it was some sort of signal to him, Droog smiles. You can't see it, but you can feel it. It feels like a knife pressed to the back of your ear. It, like everything, feels amazing.


	5. Chapter 5

Things blur. His fingers on your shoulder, caressing you and slipping down to dwell on the edge of the corset or the long gloves covering your arms, almost fade with his other hand stroking your thigh. You can still feel them, but that sensation below is so bright and aching that the rest of the world is a little duller in comparison. And then there are his words.

You started when he spoke again, because the only sound for the longest time was the sound of your own breathing, painfully ragged and arrhythmic. The almost-silence lay like a fog in the room, and that faint feeling of concealment was a small blessing to your fearful nerves. But then, his voice came calm and soft in your ear. It slips into your chest like a knife between the ribs.

"How often have you worn this, Inspector?" he asks conversationally, incongruent with his fingers between your legs. "I watched you lace this up," his other hand pulls lightly at the corset strings at your back, "and I imagine that is a developed talent." You shudder and try to find words in the shivering dissolution he's made of you, but he goes on rhetorically. Your attention is divided between the truth buried in his suggestions, worming its way around in your chest, and his hand, so close to where your shaft strains against thin wet fabric.

"Often, then?" he asks. "Or simple many, many times? You dressed in a woman's things, did you want to be treated like one? These aren't the things of a cheap whore." The words ring in your ears. If you were capable of flushing darker you would, but your humiliation has been at its peak since the moment you realized Droog's eyes were on you. "Or perhaps they're just the closest you know of such things. What would you wear if you had free access, Inspector? Clearly not your own things. This?" His hand runs carelessly over your body, and you throw yourself against it, writhing in shame but needing his touch. Without it, his words would ruin you. "Or something even more inappropriate? We should lock you up in a bordello some night, and see how long it takes for you to ask for their things." His hand stops just short of your hardness, throbbing against silk.

Your voice bubbles out of you in a high whine, something horrified and hungry. "Oh, oh no, please-"

"Please?" repeats Diamonds Droog in your ear, almost a whisper. "Well. Never let it be said that I don't appreciate a polite word."

Then he touches you, and the rest of your conscious mind forgets how to work.


	6. Chapter 6

Everything about this is so entirely new, and from that alone you would feel swept away in terror. More than that, though, the badness and juxtaposed ecstasy that come entwined combine to make you feel bits of yourself eroding away in the sheer intensity of feeling it.

You have never felt so much, not at the height of imaginary creativity and not in your girlfriend's arms. Perhaps as a result of your own secret freakishness, you were prouder than ever that your girlfriend actually emerged from your trials a bold woman. She took the lead the first time you brought her flowers; your courtship felt antiquated and shaky, but she accepted it anyhow.

Somehow the knowledge that you're betraying that, that your criminal tea companion is stroking you in her clothes, on her bed, in her room, while she is away, is secondary to the fact that his fingers are so clever on your skin, that the corset makes you breathe shallowly to begin with. The idea that you could be found desirable in these things to anyone but you is so unspeakably alien and horrific that you can barely think it, your mind scrambling away from the concept. Droog's words are worse than his hands, and whenever you can focus on them your stomach nearly rises with shame at yourself. But you couldn't stop.

His fingers are clever, though. Droog's hands are like nothing you've ever experienced, strong and thin and calloused, but with even unbitten nails, and there is no spot on you that doesn't flare into sparks when he touches it. He knows what he's doing, and that odd thought penetrates into your guilt; if you have dressed up before, what has Droog done? How is he so casual, so comfortable still, with you sprawled across him and rapidly cracking into pieces? You have never found repetition to aid you in any way outside of purely mental problems, but perhaps it is possible that Droog lost his revulsion to your kind of activities long before now.

The idea is somewhat disturbing. You would give it more thought but with his fingers wrapped around your shaft, a layer of silk between his touch and your sensitivity, you are having a great deal of trouble thinking.

His fingers are still soft on you, hardly firmer than a bare brush, but every one leaps something inside you closer to an incomprehensibly whole ecstasy. And his words, his words-

"Now what is it about this, Inspector, that has you so riled up? I've barely touched you. Certainly you were already hard when I came in. But perhaps you were just imagining this, knowing once I saw you I wouldn't be able to resist it." His thumb slides across the wet silk clinging to your tip; the sound that gets dragged out of you is so far removed from language that it makes even Droog pause. "...Or perhaps I give you too much credit. You are not a manipulator, Inspector, as intelligent as you are; clearly you don't have it in you to set me up. So perhaps I am to believe this is just an innocent misunderstanding."

He slides you off his lap, and you sprawl across the bed, body a tense wire strung over it. Droog doesn't move, just stays beside you seated casually. There's no sign on his face that he is affected at all by you and your shame, as if his fingers touched you in the interest of scientific curiosity and for no other reason. Droog, completely clothed, features bland and eyes empty, serves only to enhance your shame when you look at him. He is so normal in his way, so put-together and so easily, that your debauchery feels multiplied.

And then of course he touches you again, and such thoughts get shoved to the back of your mind to make space for the inescapable mountain of desire that is now.

He stays back, leaning on one hand. You wish he would be affected, you wish he would show some sign, and you wish you could feel his lips on your skin. But he stays back.

It doesn't matter. You don't need his lips to feel yourself gasping at the touch of his hand alone. The end is approaching fast and you wouldn't be able to stop now if you tried (as if you could have stopped any of this). Droog notices- of course, since nothing can elude him. A miniscule smile dwells on his face and his lead eyes trail slowly over you until they grip yours.

"I think I would like you to finish for me, Inspector," he says impassively. You don't know how he can say such things, no blush, no stutter, so easily and off-handed. The words stab into you and twist, their meaning settling heavily in your chest and setting off another uncomfortable wave of shame. It just makes you harder, and you worry it may be cyclical, seeing yourself react to guilt with desire and more guilt.

It doesn't matter. Fewer things do now, with Droog's fingers encircling your rigid cock. It's harder than it has ever been and straining, stretching the panties away from your hips. His every light touch spurs an impossibly deep reaction in you, and his words drag you that last space over the black threshold and into mind-emptying perfection.

Your gasps break into a cry, long and unaltered, and your hips strain into his hand as you come with unparalleled force into the silk and Droog's hand. Your vision blacks out.

You open your eyes with effort. Your body is still spasming here and there, shivering in the rush, in the ensuing fuzzy goodness. Your mind operates very, very slowly. It takes you a few blinks and a handful of moments to find Droog, standing at the foot of the bed adjusting his cufflinks. His eyes are on you, and for how long, you've no idea.

You are suddenly conscious of your dishevelled state, hair a wild cloud, limbs sprawled from endorphic throes, panties a wet stained mess clinging close to you once more. All the same, you don't move. When he looks at you like that, you just know not to.

"Thank you, Inspector," he says, with the faintest hint of an emotion you can't identify. "Very good."

Your entire body shivers, attuned to his approval.

"And I think now I will have my tea." And with that, he takes his jacket from the chair, folds it over his arm, and walks calmly, unflustered, seemingly entirely unaffected, into your living room.


	7. Epilogue

You get yourself together somehow, though you're still shaking, and clean yourself up. The sensation of water playing over your hands when you throw some on your face is heightened to the point of painful, as crystal-clear as imaginary sensation and yet entirely real. You have never seen the world in this degree of focus. The panties you drop in a sodden pile into the trash. You're not sure what you will say happened to them, but you are certainly not going to keep them, ruined as they are.

You do make tea, clad once more in your grey ill-fitting clothes, and forget socks and shoes entirely as you pad around the kitchen bare-footed. Your body is still flushed, still relaxed and drained, and you find yourself moving in a bit of a dream.

Your teacup rattles a little as you sit across from Diamonds Droog and sip at it, but you do not fumble the biscuit tray, and for once you spill nothing at all- nothing at all until Droog speaks that is. "I will buy you another pair," he says easily, "and in exchange, I hope you will wear them the next time you serve me tea." Then you upend the entire collection of biscuits, and have to pick several of them out of your teacup.

All the same, you do not say no.


End file.
